connected. Was I
walking down Folsom
when a distant friend called?
A pear and two golden-wrapped
pats of butter. Now I’m finishing a book
at Union Square when it decides to happen,
but I’m reluctant to remember everything at once.
An ice cold boyfriend (meaning each old boyfriend),
each translucent riddle. Many friends are giving birth
to books, each joy a dim remembrance. Not 100% true.
I get a big shock to my head every once in a while.
It’s a flashpan invocation of the threesome rule:
take a nap stepping backwards (with fever pitch).
He’s swatting flies in the living room. Big one.
Tiny one. Still life with cones. Still life with
pitcher and two apples (green and red). Still
life with bananas, lemons and indecipherable.
Still life at the shoeshine with a hug and a kiss.
It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Noises are
reminiscent. The cat’s lazy. Flies slap
the window. The plants need water.
Trolley cars buzz the breeze.
Green couch. Brown socks.
I finished a book. It was
good. Honk. The
sky soars.
